


Indian Summer

by Wishme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: In the bunker, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 01:12:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishme/pseuds/Wishme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Team Free Will meet Summer in the Bunker</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indian Summer

The bunker is great for a lot of reasons, but the fancy Cold War era gadgetry apparently doesn’t include air conditioning. That most of the building is built into the side of a hill helps, but its not even close to enough when the summer is high and long. Kansas isn’t known for it’s temperate climes at the best of times, but its Indian Summers leave a tacky residue on the skin. It’s not wet and thick like the bayou they tromped through on that case outside of New Orleans, but still and hot, the air vibrating with anticipation.

 

They’ve all stripped out of their usual layers, flannel relegated to the back of the closet until fall finally decides to creep back under the doors.

 

Sam lives in his workout gear these days, taking off on a run when he can no longer stand the oppressive weight of the library and the trial left undone. More often than not his tanks are sweat-stained and his shoes are beat to shit and his knees hurt, but it means he’s alive and he refuses to set them aside. Bronzed shoulders are filling out where they’d lost mass, his limbs tremble only slightly—he’s still not sure enough to shoot a gun, but he’s even more vicious now with a machete. He keeps tabs on Garth and Kevin and he and Charlie have started mapping out the wiring in the walls, uncovering sigils etched into the support beams that he now has to catalog and translate.

 

Dean’s rotation of shirts is shot with band logos, but mostly it’s the plain color tees that sell 3-for-$5 down the road that he throws on with his worn out jeans. You’d never catch him dead in sandals, but he’s barefoot unless there’s reason to lace up his work boots, and that means more layers are added because that means they’re going hunting and he has no plans to offer his arms up as a snack. He pads across the floors of the bunker, pressing soles to the cool concrete and tile floors, leaning against the walls when he finds a cool spot; takes Baby out for a run to push his face to the wind when the constancy of his room is choking. He’s learning to deal with having regular food and water and space of his own—he still keeps to the left side of the bed, nearest the door, he doesn’t talk about the unused stack of pillows on the other side that he stares at until he falls asleep.

 

There are few things Cas won’t wear, but he mostly prefers less. He’s still learning to cope with the complexities of temperature regulation, including hydration. Ever since he passed out in the garden wearing a freaking down vest _in the middle of goddamn July, Cas_ , he’s got a water bottle on hand, one of those fancy aluminum ones with birds arcing across the side that Dean picked up for him on one of the supply runs. He’s attached it to the belt slung low on his hips, dragging down one side of the jeans Dean shoved at him the moment he stepped out of his first shower at the bunker, the night he arrived bruises under his eyes and shoes bloodying his heels. Chapstick, and sunscreen are shoved into pockets, along with bits of thread and some coins. He wears the flip flops Kevin gave him just to piss Dean off when he smacks down the hallway, but mostly skims across the floors barefoot even when he climbs up onto the roof to watch the horizon—it never gets any closer, it never gets any smaller. He tries to forget what it felt like to rise above it.

 

One tree stands on the hill near the bunker, the roots twisted down somewhere in their foundations, and it’s here that Sam finds Dean and Cas in the high afternoons when the air has gone stagnant, leaving harsh words floating between their mouths, litanies of unasked questions and disappointment. The heat makes it worse, their hands itching to reach around the other’s throat, sink in to scoop out the words and phrases caught behind teeth. Sam can’t decide if these are the best or worst days. He dumps the last of his lukewarm water over their heads and in the sputtering there is laughter that he hopes will someday soon spurt forth and wash their wounds. It’s not his place to say, but he wishes he could write it out for them. He wonders where Chuck has gone and if he’s writing this scene out and how many bottles of Jack he’s slammed back and if he’s found where they’re supposed to go from here.

 

He thinks it might be here, under this tree’s sliver of shade, picking their teeth with half-healed arguments and sodden shirts, waiting for the moon to rise.

**Author's Note:**

> characters and spn are not my own and no infringement is intended


End file.
